


Neither hatred nor surrender, The Eagle fic, Esca/Marcus, NC-17

by elzed



Category: The Eagle (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed





	1. Chapter One

_**Neither hatred nor surrender, The Eagle fic, Marcus/Esca, NC-17**_  
Kind of inspired by the prompt: _We've had Esca watching Marcus masturbate and I'd love to see the opposite! Preferably when Esca is still a slave, but everything else is up to the author_ in [The Eagle kink meme](http://community.livejournal.com/the_eagle_kink/)

  
 _ **Author:** [](http://elzed.livejournal.com/profile)[**elzed**](http://elzed.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** The Eagle  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Marcus/Esca  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Spoilers:** the film  
 **Wordcount:** 3,800 words approx.  
 **Disclaimer:** So not mine - Rosemary Sutcliff's and all the people involved in the film; merely borrowing for some respectful (and hotass) homage.... _

Betaed by the lovely [](http://tarteaucitron.livejournal.com/profile)[**tarteaucitron**](http://tarteaucitron.livejournal.com/) , for which I am very grateful.

NB: Yes, it's slash. Apparently, I have found my ~~weakness~~ pairing... ;)

  
**Neither hatred nor surrender**   


  
_  
**Marcus**   
_

Marcus Flavius Aquila was ten years a soldier, close-quartered with nothing but men for weeks on end, all the way through late adolescence and early manhood. He _knows_ what it is to satisfy his lust with another young man, the press of bodies in the dark, quick furtive hands and spit slicked thighs serving where women are scarce, even if he has not done it for many a year now.

As a good Roman, he also knows that there’s no shame in taking a slave to one’s bed, male or female – that to even think about the slave’s desire, or pleasure, in all this is somehow demeaning, below the concern of a citizen.

It doesn’t matter – right now he is standing, dry-mouthed and breathless, half-hidden under a cluster of young oaks above the stream where Esca is bathing, his mind focused on _want_ and _can’t_ and bitter, burning shame. Perhaps it’s the intensity of his desire that shames him; perhaps it’s the knowledge that Esca chose death over dishonour, or the way he threw his father’s dagger at Marcus’s feet. All of which means Marcus cannot – should not – perceive his slave as mere chattel. And yet, here he stands.

The sun’s rays throw dappled shapes through the leaves and onto the pale skin of Esca’s back. Marcus is transfixed, like the first time he saw him – half naked and defiant in the arena, bruises mottling his chest, the blue lines of his tattoo tracing an intricate pattern down his arm – and felt something twist in his gut.

Except this time there are no loosely tied breeches to impede his view of Esca’s arse, or when he turns around, his half-hard cock nestled in a thatch of dark blond curls, twitching as Esca rubs himself down with sand to get rid of the blood and dirt of the hunt. Marcus has spent his life sharing baths with men – catching others’ not-so-subtle glances at his own muscled body, sometimes retuning the looks. Nothing has prepared him for the sheer erotic charge of watching his slave clean himself in a stream.

Especially when Esca stops scrubbing and rinsing, and almost as an afterthought palms his by now solid erection, giving it a couple of slow strokes that that go straight to Marcus’s groin. Heart racing, he slips a hand under his tunic, squeezes himself roughly through his breeches, his eyes glued to the scene below him.

Esca’s loosely circling his cock with his right hand, tugging and stroking himself with a practised rhythm, his other hand sliding up his wet torso to pinch a nipple, twist it, triggering a low guttural moan. In the glints of sunlight reflected on the water, he looks like a lithe woodland spirit, arching his back as he thrusts into his own hand, a dull flush spreading down his neck and chest as his arousal spikes, and Marcus bites off a moan of his own, the heel of his hand rubbing frantically against his own swollen prick

It’s not just the jutting hardness of Esca’s cock that makes Marcus feel like he’s on the brink but his half-open mouth with its lips red and inviting, and the line of his throat, a pure pale arc as Esca’s head falls back just before he comes with a groan and a few thick spurts that Marcus stares at avidly. That’s all it takes for him to reach his own release, wave after wave of pleasure surging from his loins, relentless. His cock’s still throbbing in his breeches when Esca’s heavy-lidded eyes snap open and look directly at him – no doubt or surprise there, like he knew from the start about Marcus’s presence, and Marcus, overwhelmed with shame, remembers what a skilled tracker his slave is.

He stumbles back blindly to where they tied the horses, pausing only to wipe himself down with a handful of coarse grass. Whether Esca did the whole thing on purpose to tease him, or whether he was too far gone to stop when he realised Marcus was watching is impossible to tell. Either answer is odious, as far as his master is concerned.

 _  
**Esca**   
_

  
There is much Esca does not understand about the Romans, and much that he finds absurd – not least their prudery in sexual matters. The son of a chieftain, as a youth, he spent much time training and fighting with other young warriors, and sharing a bed more often than not. The pleasure was there for the taking – and more fool he who denied himself. As for women, they were less accessible but far from the impregnable fortresses that Roman matrons appeared to be.

He misses the easy camaraderie and playful fucking of his younger days. Since his capture, he’s barely had an opportunity for release – an occasional willing slave girl; once or twice a fellow gladiator in training; now, in Aquila’s villa, nothing but his right hand and a fertile imagination, which he puts to good use whenever he gets an opportunity.

When he realised earlier that his master was watching him bathe, his first reaction was anger – how dare he interfere with the rare moments of private time Esca snatched for himself? But Marcus’s silence – his touching belief that Esca had no idea he was there, when he might as well have announced his arrival with _buccinae,_ so heavy was his tread in the undergrowth – had added an element of excitement to the situation. Maybe there was more to the master than met the eye, and maybe Esca had been right to interpret some of his looks as more than just curious.

In the end, Esca’s release had been greatly magnified by the thought of Marcus’s eyes on him, and when he finally looked at him, it was sweet revenge to see the shock in those brown eyes, and the desire so nakedly expressed. I was a measure of shame, too – by rights, he ought to loathe Marcus, who rescued him from the peace of an honourable death to return him into bondage; whose people butchered his family and enslaved his people. Esca should be plotting to kill him, or escape, or both – not pledging his loyalty for his unwanted mercy, certainly not pleasuring himself with thoughts of his master, like a willing whore.

And yet as the day progresses, he cannot stop himself wondering whether the master will ask for more tonight; whether he will have an opportunity to give in to his desires. He’s been expecting this for some time, now that Marcus is healed – a body slave must minister to his master’s every need. Old Stephanos intimated as much when he joined the household, but the call never came, and Esca is curious as to why, if the desire is plainly there. Perhaps the Roman does not want to sully his cock with a Briton, or perhaps he prefers the company of women. As far as Esca knows, though, Marcus hasn’t taken a woman to his bed in the months he’s been here.

But the master doesn’t request his services that evening – Marcus leaves after _cena_ , alone, for town, and doesn’t return until late in the night. When Esca, roused from a fitful sleep by the door, attends to him, stripping his tunic and washing his feet, he notices the telltale red marks on his back, the musky smell of woman on his skin, the reek of cheap wine on his breath. A whore, then, or some other Roman’s slave girl, perhaps, and he feels a stab of jealousy that another should have profited from the fire he stoked.

His master does not speak, barely looks at him before stumbling into bed. He is snoring within minutes, leaving Esca to imagine what feats of endurance must have led to such exhaustion as he beds down in his own quarters. Perhaps two whores sharing his bed, rivalling with each other to excite the master, and to satisfy his every urge with hand and mouth, offering breasts, cunts and arses for his cock to plunder. Desire rises in Esca again as he lies on his pallet, his mind full of images of Marcus taking his pleasure, of women pliant and spread for him, of Marcus coming, eyes wide and dark, mouth slack, just like he looked this morning by the river, and he strokes himself to hardness and climax with fevered hands.

 _  
**Marcus**   
_

  
The morning sunshine might as well be daggers into Marcus’s eyes when he wakes up, sweaty and stinking, his breath so fetid he wouldn’t be surprised if a mouse had died in his mouth during the night. That wine was worse even than he thought at the time, and he drank far too much of it in his desperate bid to erase the memory of Esca’s eyes, witnessing his shame. He doesn’t remember the girl’s name, but she was lithe, and young, and her mouth tasted sweet. She arched under him and shook and cried, so Marcus has reason to believe she enjoyed their tryst, and he liked her well enough to fuck her twice. The second time, he barely thought about Esca, which he counts a victory.

Esca, who has either been waiting just outside the door for the first signs of waking, or who is possessed with special druidic powers, materialises at Marcus’s bedside with a bowl of water and a towel, the image of the perfect body slave. It would be annoying if Marcus wasn’t so grateful for the opportunity to wash his face and rinse out his dry mouth.

All the way through the morning ablutions, Marcus studiously avoids thinking about the embarrassing episode at the hunt, choosing instead to revisit the high points of the previous night, despite the distraction of Esca’s hands on his face as he shaves him. Later, in the bathhouse, he relies on the _frigidarium_ to keep any inappropriate sexual thoughts at bay – since apparently his nocturnal adventures failed to sate him.

Even the coldest of baths can fail however, and under Esca’s vigorous ministrations – first with the strigil, cleaning oil and filth from his skin, and then with his fingers as he pinches and probes his master’s body all over in a deep massage – Marcus realises belatedly that he is getting aroused again. The awareness comes when he rolls over onto his back, still addled from the wine and lack of sleep, and his erection bobs up unselfconsciously. There’s no way to deal with it that isn’t somehow mortifying, so he decides to pretend it isn’t there, and hope it will deflate on its own, if he thinks about something else. But all the distracting thoughts in the world are no match for Esca’s voice.

“Does the master want assistance with this?” he asks, running his fingers along Marcus’s hipbone, and the treacherous member twitches.

If Marcus had the courage to look at Esca, he’s sure he’d find the bastard smiling.

“No,” he says, roughly.

“Are you sure, master? I know what my duties are.” Esca sounds indifferent, almost bored.

“I am sure,” he insists, his voice rough and his despicable cock still standing proud. “This does not count as your duties.”

“Most Romans would disagree with you,” Esca says, starting work on his good leg first, his thumbs strong against Marcus’s stiff muscles.

Marcus takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, forces himself to look at his slave.

“I am not most Romans. And I will not request that kind of service from you.”

“Why not? You prefer to pay a whore for the privilege? You think she gives her body more willingly than a slave does?”

“Yes. And I don’t know whether she is more willing. I know that I do not wish to use my slave in that way, to force myself onto you.”

Even if he weren’t naked – and still hard, the gods be cursed – this would qualify as a conversation Marcus would prefer not to have with his slave. In the circumstances, it’s nothing short of appalling. But he soldiers on.

“I don’t know what my uncle or Stephanos said to you, and I don’t care. This isn’t…”

At which point Esca, who’s been staring at him sceptically for the past few minutes, places his hand firmly on Marcus’s engorged cock, and gives it a squeeze.

“Are you not listening to me?” Marcus shouts, desperation in his voice because, by Mithras, the feel of Esca’s hand on him is unbelievably exciting and his control is fraying at the edges.

“I hear you telling me that you will not force yourself upon me, and that you have no wish to rape me. What if I want this?”

There’s a defiant smile on his face as he says that, but also – and that surprises Marcus more than anything else – something in his voice, a roughness, that makes him sound aroused. His eyes are wide and bright, and his breath is shallow. His hand stays put, on Marcus’s cock, and Marcus does not have the strength to bat it away.

Maybe he is telling the truth.

“Why would you? I am Roman. You hate all things Roman.”

“I do not hate you, Aquila,” Esca says, his tone softer, and that too sounds like he is telling the truth.

“You are a man. I am a man. This cannot… there is no honour…” Marcus tries to explain and falters.

“Honour?” Esca mocks. “You are a man. I am your slave. Surely there is no talk of honour in such circumstances.”

Marcus is caught in the foolish inconsistencies of his mind. How can he explain to his maddening Briton that it is precisely because he considers him as more than just a slave, as a man of honour, that he cannot use his body so?

“I will not use you for my pleasure,” he rasps, and Esca laughs.

“What makes you so sure the pleasure would be yours alone?” he says, suggestively, and his fingers caress Marcus’s length with just enough pressure to make him moan.

“Gods, Esca,” he breathes out, his resolve crumbling with every passing second.

“Maybe this is not something Roman men do, and maybe you cannot imagine that a slave could have desires, but I will tell you this, Marcus Flavius Aquila,” Esca whispers, all the while looking Marcus straight in the eye. “I am not Roman, and I am not bound by your stupid conventions. I may be your slave, but before that I was a chieftain’s son, and a warrior, and I have bedded both youths and girls among my people, of my free will.”

He leans over Marcus, so that their faces are closer, and tightens his grip around Marcus’s erection, eliciting an undignified whimper. Marcus is starting to worry that if this goes on much longer, he will ejaculate in the slave’s hand, without needing any more stimulation. Somehow Esca’s fierceness is answering some deep-seated need in him – or freeing him from the fear that he is committing a dishonourable act, perhaps.

Either way, he cannot resist any more, so he raises himself on his elbow, closes the gap between his mouth and Esca’s, and kisses him. It’s a clumsy affair, the angle is all wrong and Esca is all teeth at first, but then their tongues meet and suddenly their mouths are slanting over each other, lips and tongues melding, and Marcus Flavius Aquila is lost in a world of touch and lust and frenzied wet heat.

He wraps a hand around Esca’s neck, dragging him closer as he kisses him deeper, and he tries to ignore the needy sounds issuing from his own throat. Finally they part for a breath, and he opens his eyes to find Esca hovering over him, chest to chest, one arm across his body. Marcus is abruptly reminded of the day of his surgery, how then too Esca was lying on him – except that then he was not looking like a picture of Bacchanalian debauchery with his mouth red and swollen from kissing, nor was he caressing Marcus’s cock in long deliberate strokes that might make him come at any moment.

Marcus thrusts into Esca’s hand, following the rhythm, but holds back. Surely if Esca looks like this, he too must be wanting relief – and the thought that he could be touching Esca in return, offering him pleasure, makes him tremble with want. He reaches blindly with his right hand down Esca’s side, wishing his slave were also naked and he could press his fingers to heated skin instead of the rough cloth of his tunic, and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath when he makes contact with the bulge in Esca’s crotch, and presses the heel of his hand into it.

There’s no time for finesse as he fumbles with the laces of Esca’s breeches in his haste to reach skin, to hold his hot hard cock in his grasp and stroke it, marvelling at the softness of the skin under his calloused fingers. The way Esca bucks his hips as Marcus touches him, the muttered words – not Latin – that fall from his lips with every thrust, add to Marcus’s intense arousal. Most assuredly, this is not a slave submitting meekly to his master’s desire.

Esca is panting harshly now, and has renewed his assault on Marcus’s cock, boring his eyes into his master’s, and Marcus is gritting his teeth as he returns the stare. They are locked in some sort of sexual contest – daring each other to come first, and it is without a doubt the most erotic moment Marcus has ever experienced. They have fallen into rhythm, each thrusting into the other’s hand, and as Marcus feels his balls tightening he tries to improve on his stroke, adds a twist, but it’s too late – the first tremors of orgasm are upon him.

Esca feels it too, and his eyes soften momentarily as he smiles – a crooked grin that hints at pride at having bested the Roman – and then Marcus’s universe dissolves into white light and pure pleasure as he erupts into Esca’s hand with a shout. He manages to keep his grip on Esca’s cock, and is gratified to realise his slave is barely behind him as it pulses in his hand, and come spatters on his arm and flank.

 _  
**Esca**   
_

  
As the pounding in his temples and his chest subsides, Esca starts gathering his wits again. He’s still unreasonably proud of the fact that he broke through Marcus’s resistance – both because it flatters his pride as a seducer, and because he, the slave, beat the master. He did not behave as a submissive slave – nor was he treated as one. Now he’s spent, the master might decide this was a mistake, and resent Esca’s words. He’s been thrashed often enough since he was captured to know that he is a poor excuse for a slave at the best of times, and that his refusal to submit is not appreciated by Romans.

Except, perhaps, this one.

Esca slips off the couch and back on his feet, pulling up his breeches and tying them swiftly. It is after all the middle of the morning, and it’s not unheard of for old Aquila to visit the baths at that hour. Marcus is still lying on the couch naked, eyes closed, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he is awake, and Esca allows himself a frank appraisal of his master’s body – from the broad shoulders to the muscled chest, down to the thick half hard cock lying on his injured thigh. There’s no doubt that he’s a superb figure of a warrior, even with his injury, and it pleases Esca’s foolish pride.

When Marcus opens his eyes, and catches him looking, Esca doesn’t back down. The standoff lasts a few seconds, and then Marcus breaks eye contact as he pushes himself up and swings his legs over the side of the couch, reaching for his tunic to shrug on.

“You are a chieftain’s son, you say?”

The question stuns Esca into silence. Of all the things Marcus could have asked after their moment of intimacy, that is perhaps the one he least expected.

“My father was Cunoval,” he says, finally. “Bearer of the Blue War Shield of the Brigantes, Lord of five hundred spears. I was his armour-bearer until I became a warrior.”

This is not something he has told any of his previous masters – his name, his family’s honour; they are for him to remember and respect, and others have no right to know them. He is not sure why he wishes Marcus to be aware who he is – who he _was_ – but he is sure the Roman will not mock him.

“I have heard of your people. They were fierce warriors. Worthy enemies.”

“They are dead now,” Esca replies. He does not wish to think about them, about the gaping loss.

“I am sorry,” Marcus says, and he pauses. “I too lost my father in battle, killed by Britons. Or so I believe. His body was never found.”

Esca nods grimly. Cunoval’s body was probably thrown in an unmarked mass grave, with quicklime poured over it and none of the ceremonies and libations appropriate for a fallen warrior. It is only fair that Aquila’s father should have suffered the same fate, or worse.

And yet, Esca spoke true when he told Marcus he did not hate him – and did not add that it made him troubled and weak, whereas in the past, his hatred kept him burning bright and sharp.

He sighs and starts gathering his implements – the strigil and the bottle of oil, the bowls and the cloths. Behind him, Marcus is shuffling awkwardly, lacing his sandals – arguably Esca’s task, except that at this precise moment, he doesn’t feel like attending to his master.

Perhaps Marcus can tell, because he clears his throat, twice, and Esca is forced to turn to face him. He has rarely seen him look so ill at ease.

“I hope this…” Marcus says, and he stops and licks his lips, while Esca watches, intrigued.

“What I mean to say…”

Marcus falls silent again. Esca is beginning to wonder whether his words have deserted him along with his seed, in the heat of passion.

“It doesn’t have to…”

“I understand,” Esca says, interrupting. “It is of no import. Now will you have further need of me or may I be excused?”

He shows Marcus the objects in his hands, head suitably inclined, and is rewarded with a frustrated sigh.

“Yes, of course. But…”

If he lets the Roman try to finish his thought, they will be in the baths all day, he thinks, so he walks away, head held straight, and resists the temptation to look back, no matter how much he wants to.


	2. Chapter Two

It all started off with the prompt: _We've had Esca watching Marcus masturbate and I'd love to see the opposite! Preferably when Esca is still a slave, but everything else is up to the author_ in [The Eagle kink meme](http://community.livejournal.com/the_eagle_kink/); for which I wrote something, which clearly needed a follow-up. So this is it...

 

 _ **Author:**  
 **Fandom:** The Eagle  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Esca/Marcus; Esca/OFC  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Spoilers:** the film  
 **Wordcount:** 5,500 words approx.  
 **Disclaimer:** So not mine - Rosemary Sutcliff's and all the people involved in the film; merely borrowing for some respectful (and hotass) homage.... _

Betaed - and cheerled - by the lovely tarteaucitron, for which I am very grateful, and looked over for historical inaccuracies and general Roman propriety by the delightful - and learned - , for which, thank you!

AN: There may be a little het, but it's still pretty much slash...

 

  
**Neither hatred nor surrender, Part Two**   


 

 _  
**Esca**   
_

He does not expect an immediate summons to his master’s bed, but Esca is mildly surprised when three days pass and Marcus makes no attempt to repeat their bathhouse tryst. Worse, a feeling of unease lingers between them, and Esca finds himself spending more time on household tasks, and less on those required of a body slave. To all intents and purposes, his master is avoiding him, which makes very little sense to Esca.

He fails to understand the reticence – certainly he has made it clear that their dalliance was no hardship; why Marcus will not indulge is beyond Esca’s reasoning. No doubt it is to do with the Roman’s peculiar notions of honour, again.

It has become a test of endurance, and one that Esca appears to be losing. Perhaps it is the release that he allowed himself after many months of enforced chastity, but he finds his dreams are now invaded by visions of Marcus’s naked body – the smooth planes of his chest, his powerful shoulders, the tantalising hardness of his cock. Esca has woken two nights in a row in the throes of climax, something that hasn’t happened since he was a young warrior, and it troubles him enough that he decides to seek a remedy.

Accordingly, when Marcus announces that morning that he intends to go to the public baths in Calleva, and needs no company, Esca elects to run errands for Stephanos to a nearby farm. There’s a sturdy but pretty slave girl there, whose grey eyes Esca has caught fixed on him a few times, and he’s danced that dance often enough to know what it means.

She's feeding the chickens when he walks through the farm gate, the grain gathered in a fold of her long tunic, and Esca watches as she calls the birds with soft clucking sounds, scattering the feed in a broad swipe of her freckled arm. He tracks the sway of her hips when she moves, the soft curve of her breasts under the cloth, and wonders whether her sideways glances will hold their promise.

"Old Stephanos sent me from Aquila's place," he says by way of introduction. "We need eggs. I hear your hens are the best layers in the area."

She turns to face him, and the sly smile that lights up her face confirms his hopes.

“I know how to treat my birds,” she says, her voice teasing. “A gentle hand, and much encouragement. They reward me.”

There is definite potential here.

“So what is your name, then?” he asks, with a broad grin. “I’m Esca.”

“Lucilia,” she says, and the way she looks at him under her eyelashes makes his blood rush to his loins. “And I already know who _you_ are.”

They exchange pleasantries, and a few coins for a basket of still-warm eggs collected in the henhouse. The sun grows warm, the softness of spring is in the air; it doesn’t take long for Esca to coax her into the stables for a few stolen kisses against the rough wattle and daub.

Lucilia is everything he hoped for, her young body eager and willing under his mouth and hands, in the cool darkness suffused with the sweet smell of horses and fresh hay. She lets him touch her under her rucked-up tunic, legs parting enough for him to slip one finger, then two into her slick heat, holding his breath until she moans and pushes back against his hand. She bites Esca’s mouth when he kisses her, almost hard enough to draw blood, and that excites him further as he tugs at his breeches one-handed, eager to free himself.

“Let me, Esca,” she whispers against his mouth, and her hand – so small and soft, he thinks, before shutting down that thought – makes short work of his laces and wraps itself around his straining cock.

The thought of Marcus’s hard grip fades momentarily as Esca loses himself in Lucilia’s parted thighs, the wet heat of her cunt, her muffled cries against his shoulder spurring him on until he spills inside her, heart hammering wildly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, this feels like a vindictive swipe at Marcus, but he’s not foolish enough to think that he’s exorcising the memory in any way.

Still, that night, he does not disgrace himself in his sleep, so he counts it a success.

 _  
**Marcus**   
_

There are many reasons Marcus has been disturbed in the past three days, chief among them the fact that he is no longer able to look his own body slave in the face. Every time he thinks of calling Esca to help dress him, or lace his sandals, let alone clean him, he is back as he was that morning in the baths, hard and hungry and _wanting_ , and desire wars with embarrassment in his mind. It should not be an issue between master and slave, let alone a slave so willing to perform, and yet.

Surely it would have been easier had Esca been an ordinary slave, and had there been no talk of honour and chieftains, no thought in Marcus’s treacherous brain of his slave as a warrior worthy of respect. His mind swirls with the memories of their shared pleasure, Esca’s lean body taut as a bowstring, his cock throbbing in Marcus’s hands, their struggle for supremacy as they faced each other, and at the end, Esca’s parting words – _“It is of no import”_ – as Marcus stood hapless and tongue-tied, a state of affairs which endures to this moment.

But Marcus is a soldier, and like any good soldier, he excels at denial and discipline. Eventually, he gathers his wits about him and rides to the great baths at Calleva, seeking to scrub the memory of Esca’s hands on his body as well as the filth on his skin – and succeeding, at least in the latter. On his return home, he overtakes Esca near the gate, carrying a basket of eggs on his arm, and greets him. Somehow the tension of the past days has abated, and Marcus resolves to put this aberration behind him.

Accordingly, early next morning, he makes good on an old promise to himself to resume his military training, regardless of his future career, and summons Esca to the yard by the vegetable garden where the ground is even and not too stony. He has brought two small round shields, and a couple of _gladii._

“I assume you know how to use one of these?” he says, handing one of the short swords to Esca, who just nods abruptly before grabbing it and swinging it experimentally around, gauging its weight and balance.

“Shorter than I am used to, but I like its heft.”

“I need someone to spar with – my uncle is too old, and none of the other slaves know how to hold a sword.”

“Is this the first time since your injury?” Esca asks, head tilted to the side, and Marcus’s jaw tightens.

“Yes. But it would take more to make me forget something I have practised since I was a boy.”

Esca smiles at this and picks up his _parma,_ gripping it securely in his left hand.

“Then we are set for battle.”

They begin warily, circling each other like two gladiators in the arena assessing each other’s weaknesses. Marcus does not know how Esca fights – or indeed how accustomed he is to sparring for sport, and deflecting more dangerous blows. Esca meanwhile gives every indication of a slave unwilling to further injure his master, by keeping on the side of Marcus’s good leg, which perversely gives Marcus an advantage.

After a few feints, Marcus decides to start in earnest, and he thrusts at Esca, who parries effectively with a twist of his wrist before returning the move. Their swords clash a couple of times, then Marcus punches at him with his shield, and Esca falls back three paces, and grins wolfishly, which makes heat flare in Marcus’s belly.

The next exchange of blows is less tentative and faster, and Marcus discovers that Esca has an keen eye for the flaws in his stance, almost nicking his arm at one point where the shield was held too low. The thrust and parry continues with increased speed and agility – much of it on Esca’s part, while Marcus, still a little stiff, relies more on his well-honed routines and his longer reach.

One thing is clear – Esca’s decision to abandon the combat in the arena was evidently a choice, and not merely a concession to the inevitable. He is an excellent swordsman, and his style, while unconventional, would more than pass muster in the barracks where Marcus leaned to fight.

“Why did you refuse to fight the gladiator that day?” Marcus pants, after ducking a particularly vicious lunge. “You could have given him a hard time, even won that bout.”

“I did not want to,” Esca says, short, as he falls back to adjust the grip on his shield. “I had no wish to fight for my life in order to entertain a few Romans and their lapdogs.”

Esca’s tone annoys Marcus – not least because there is as much contempt expressed in the word _Romans_ as there is in _lapdogs_. The irritation gets the better of him, and his next attack is at close to full strength, a brutal push forwards that all but knocks Esca sideways.

This in turn gives Esca free rein, and now their bout is less sparring match and more actual combat. Sweat is running down Marcus’s forehead and into his eyes, and his blood is up, singing in his heart like it does in the heat of battle. This is a real test of each other’s skills, he knows, where a false move or a clumsy challenge can result in injury.

It is also singularly arousing, he realises, catching Esca’s scent as he bears down on him, sword raised and shield lowered, and reacting, predictably, by stiffening in his breeches. Not for the first time, he thanks the gods that _braccae_ have become the norm in northern climes, and that he’s not just clad in a tunic, which would make his state all the more visible.

Esca’s grin is dangerous as he slices his _gladius_ at Marcus, just shy of his neck, and when Marcus prepares to lunge back at him, his foot slips on a loose stone, his injured leg gives way, and he collapses on the dusty ground. Years of practice have bred quick reflexes, so Marcus rolls out of the way of Esca’s blade, and trips him up. Cursing, Esca lands on Marcus’s chest, the edge of his shield digging into his ribs in the most unpleasant manner.

From then on it degenerates into a wrestling match, the swords discarded at such close quarters but neither of them willing either to surrender or call it a draw. Esca keeps hold of his shield for long enough to add a few more bruises to Marcus’s ribcage, until Marcus manages to use his weight advantage to roll him over, and the shield becomes useless.

Esca lies sprawled on the earth, Marcus’s weight pinning him down, hip to shoulder – at which point Marcus becomes acutely aware that his erection must be pressing into Esca’s hip, affording him little opportunity for concealment. He tries to shift his weight, and is rewarded by a slow, languid thrust upwards from Esca, unmistakeably erotic in nature, and a sharp flare of desire in his loins.

 _  
**Esca**   
_

The feel of his master’s rigid prick against the hollow of his hip is welcome, and something of a relief for Esca, who has been feeling the pull of arousal ever since they started sparring together. The last few moments as they grappled together on the ground have sparked an almost intolerable desire for more, and the prospect of pleasure is perhaps finally nearer. So he pushes back against Marcus’s hardness, and watches as a dark blush rises on the Roman’s face.

He tries it again, angling his hips so their cocks slide against each other, and Marcus gasps. Let the Roman pretend he doesn’t want to fuck him now, honour or not. Esca looks up into his eyes, dark and almost haunted. Marcus seems lost in a fog of desire and incomprehension, so forlorn that Esca reaches for his neck and pulls him down into a kiss.

Their lips touch and Esca feels his whole body taking flame, tendrils of heat coursing through his veins as Marcus opens his mouth without any more provocation and licks inside Esca’s mouth. It is as if he has suddenly realised that there is no longer any point in denying the obvious, and all Esca can think as the blood surges through him, and he cants his hips against the press of Marcus’s, is that it took long enough. A growl issues from somewhere – Esca can’t tell whether it’s from his throat or Marcus’s – and hands are fumbling with his breeches, which seems to demand reciprocity.

Marcus is biting his way down Esca’s throat now, and they have both managed to loosen their clothing enough for skin to touch skin. There’s delicious friction as they rut against each other, oblivious to anything but the slide of flesh on flesh, and – in Esca’s case – the added thrill of Marcus’s teeth and wet tongue on his neck.

The ground is hard and not all that comfortable; although secluded, they are within earshot of the kitchens, but it occurs to neither of them to stop this or try to move it somewhere more discreet. Marcus reaches a hand down, between their writhing bodies, and Esca cuts off a moan when his master’s calloused fingers wrap themselves around both their erections, tugging them slowly in rhythm, then faster. He sinks his teeth in Marcus’s freckled shoulder to stop himself from shouting when, all too quickly, he spends himself over Marcus’s fist, the throbbing in his cock echoed by Marcus’s.

The whole thing has taken but a few moments. They have not exchanged a word.

Maybe this is the way to do things with this Roman – pretend it does not happen, speak not of it. It would be a shame, though, because Esca likes sparring with Marcus, and not just with weapons or fists.

Perhaps mindful of his last attempt at talking to Esca, after their previous exchange of favours, Marcus keeps silent as they pick themselves up from the ground, dusting themselves and adjusting their dress. Esca glances at him sideways, the tension in Marcus’s jaw evident. Much to his surprise, he finds he still wants to touch him, to run his fingers along the curve of that jaw, down the powerful neck – almost as thick as his thigh, he wagers – or along the lush fullness of Marcus’s mouth.

Apparently, his desire is not easily extinguished, and if he judges by Marcus’s lowered gaze and flushed face, it remains mutual. And yet Esca is willing to bet his freedom that Marcus will, once again, behave as though nothing had happened and avoid him at every opportunity. There will likely be more visits to the Calleva baths, and to the Calleva whores, while Esca will be frustrated and forced to look to his own hand or the likes of Lucilia when what he really wants is his master.

This is nonsense, and as they walk back towards the villa, swords and shields in hand, Esca decides that he will not let this stalemate endure.

 _ **Marcus**_  
He dismisses Esca as soon as they reach the house, sending him off to polish the armour and look to the horses, any pretext to keep him out of his sight. The speed at which his own resolve crumbled appalled Marcus at the moment it happened, shames him still, and he will not look at Esca’s departing form, even though he knows full well his slave is angry with him.

His body is streaked with dirt and sweat, and Esca’s seed, drying in a sticky patch on his stomach, under his tunic, so he marches to the baths, strips swiftly, scrubbing away the worst of the dirt with his stained tunic before plunging himself into the _frigidarium_. The cold takes his breath away and finally calms down the beating of his heart, the insistent throbbing of his loins.

Later, as he rests in his bedroom, his leg sore from the earlier exercise, Marcus allows himself to think about what happened during training, even if it brings hot shame to his face once again. The memory of Esca lying under him, hard and eager as Marcus thrust against him, is causing turmoil in his mind. His mouth, his tongue, the sharp scent of his sweat as Marcus licked and bit his way down to his shoulder, the feel of his hard cock against Marcus’s own, inside Marcus’s grip – every element of their brief encounter is stamped in Marcus’s brain, cherished and reviled all at once.

It should not have happened once, let alone twice. It pains Marcus to admit it, yet he fears he lacks the power to stop it from happening again, if the occasion should present itself. He rises laboriously from his bed and walks to the corner of his room where he has set the small altar that always travels with him. He lights a little incense and lets the smoke waft over him, cleansing him.

“Mithras, Lord of Light, father of our fathers, let me not bring shame upon my family; Mithras, Lord of Light, father of our fathers, let me be strong.”

As the blue smoke rises around him, it occurs to Marcus that he is making futile efforts to defend a position that has in fact already been surrendered.

Esca seems to have taken note of Marcus’s unwillingness to have him in attendance, and has been tending to the horses, or whatever other tasks Stephanos saw fit to give him, all day. Marcus does not see him until _cena_ , where he serves the food unobtrusively, as he should.

“So how did the sparring go?” his uncle asks, passing the bread, and Marcus exerts his willpower to stop himself from blushing, and takes a long sip of wine.

“Well, thank you. My leg is tired but I have recovered most of my strength, if not my speed quite yet. I will need to practise more.”

“And how was Esca?”

“A worthy opponent,” Marcus says, busying himself with his stew. He can tell the back of his neck is beginning to redden. “He is a fine swordsman.”

He will _not_ look at Esca.

“Indeed,” his uncle says, thoughtfully. “Esca, speak frankly – what did you think of my nephew’s form? Is he well enough to fight?”

“If that was the centurion in a weakened state then I dread to think what it must have been to face him at full strength,” Esca says, and Marcus cannot stop himself from looking up at him.

Esca’s gaze is respectfully lowered, but not averted, and there is a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Hah! Well this is good news indeed, Marcus. You should make it a regular occurrence. Anything that improves your physical condition is good for the healing.”

Marcus nods and grunts noncommittally, making a show of cleaning his plate. If he can survive a little longer, then he can plead tiredness and go to bed. And once in bed, he can stop pretending that this conversation about swordsmanship and sparring with Esca is anything but excruciating.

Once he has made his excuses and retired for the evening, though, his peace turns out to be short-lived. He’s barely begun his evening ablutions when there is a knock at the door.

“I am resting,” Marcus calls out, but that doesn’t deter the intruder, who turns out to be Esca.

“Stephanos was berating me for not taking care of my master,” he says as he walks in and closes the door behind him, and Marcus sighs.

“You are excused,” he says, pointedly not looking at Esca. “I can look well enough after myself.”

“I am not sure that is true,” Esca replies, and the boldness of the statement jars Marcus into alertness.

“What?”

“Centurion,” Esca says – and Marcus can’t help but notice he’s not calling him master. “I think there is something between us that is unfinished.”

Marcus is torn between anger at his slave for daring to broach the subject, and reluctant respect for his audacity. Esca’s unwillingness to submit has always appealed to him far more than it has annoyed him, and undoubtedly forms a great part of the attraction that has led him to this parlous state of affairs.

“It is not your place to think about such things,” he says, but even to his own ears his voice lacks authority.

Esca ignores him and steps closer, invading Marcus’s space, and yet Marcus does not move.

“I know you want this,” Esca says, gesturing between them. “I know you want _me._ And you know I want you too, so I do not understand why you are torturing yourself so. This is about you fucking a slave. There is no prohibition there.”

“There is,” Marcus says, his mouth dry, “about two men fucking each other.”

“Not when one of them is a slave.”

“Well maybe you are not just another slave to be fucked, Esca,” Marcus says. He can scarcely believe what he is saying, but apparently, his mouth has decided to stop obeying his brain, because it won’t shut up. “Not to me.”

“Ah, but I am in the eyes of Rome and of those who follow her, so there is no problem here for your precious Roman honour. As for me – I know who I am and what I do, and there is no law among my people that says you can’t fuck another man if it so please you. Or be fucked by him.”

And the look in his eyes is so fierce as he makes reference to the act that Marcus has barely dared to fantasise about, that Marcus is struck dumb.

“What is the matter, centurion? Have you lost your powers of speech again?”

“No man should allow this…” Marcus says, his voice faltering, and Esca cuts him off.

“No. No Roman, perhaps, and more fool the one who believes this. But do not force your ideas upon me. I have done this, many times, and I have taken pleasure from it, and I would take pleasure from it with you.”

The fierceness has softened somewhat, and there is something almost gentle about Esca. He is close – close enough that Marcus can feel his body heat and yearn for his touch; too close to stop himself doing something foolish.

“You would not feel dishonour?” he asks, hoarse.

“Dishonour? No. I do not think my honour belongs in the seat of my breeches, Roman. Dishonour is fleeing before the enemy, it is betraying your family, or breaking your bond,” and as Esca says that his eyes flicker towards his father’s dagger, which Marcus keeps by his bedside. “Dishonour is not about who fucks whom. Not when it is freely given.”

“So, Esca,” Marcus says, making every effort to keep his voice steady and to ignore the absurdity of such a conversation between master and slave. “You would have me fuck you, for your own pleasure?”

“I would,” Esca says with a feral grin, “and I think that you would find your pleasure too.”

This is not the first time that Marcus Flavius Aquila has wished for greater powers of rhetoric, the better to express his innermost thoughts; for the ability to rebut an argument with a few simple, well-chosen words; all to no avail. He is a soldier, a man of action rather than words; moreover at this precise moment he is entirely overwhelmed by the strength of his physical response to Esca.

He cannot think, or utter a word, so he gives in to the temptation placed in front of him, stretching out his right arm until his hand makes contact with Esca’s shoulder, and he feels Esca’s gratifying shudder.

That small show of weakness, of a man caught in the same web of desire as he is, finally spurs Marcus into action. His hand closes around Esca’s upper arm and he pulls him closer, until they are kissing. Marcus loses himself in the press of Esca’s mouth all over again, caught in a frenzy of demanding lips and agile tongue, and he stops fighting the inexorable tide of desire swamping his body.

When they pull apart, Esca’s eyes are bright and wide, a dark flush creeping up his neck, his mouth quirked in the same infuriating grin, but with lips swollen from their kissing. That mixture of defiance and debauchery is Marcus’s undoing.

“By Jupiter, Esca,” he swears, and he pushes him against the wall, one hand sliding upwards to Esca’s neck, the other groping through his tunic for the bulge he knows is there. Unexpectedly, Esca is letting himself be manhandled, loose-limbed and eager, thrusting into Marcus’s hand as soon as it makes contact with his erection, tipping his head back to offer his throat for Marcus to lick, or bite, or kiss as he will.

Marcus himself is rock hard, almost painfully so, and takes every opportunity to grind against Esca’s thigh as he plunders his mouth and neck. Esca’s skin tastes of salt and fresh sweat, and he groans when Marcus sinks his teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. They struggle together to pull off first Esca’s tunic, Marcus’s hands fumbling at the fabric, then Marcus’s, Esca’s gestures deft and practised as one who has undressed his master often.

Naked, they face each other, breathing harshly. Marcus’s eyes roam over Esca’s body, the lean, taut muscles that he admired from the moment he saw him in the arena, the sharp blue lines of his tattoo, the rigid cock standing at attention, and, when he raises his head, the arrogant stare that meets his own.

“As you wish, then,” he says. There is no more denial in him.

 _  
**Esca**   
_

_Finally,_ Esca thinks, a fierce joy in his heart at Marcus’s words. There is something to be admired about the Roman’s grace under the circumstances – this is not an admission of defeat, but rather an acceptance of the inevitable, which Esca can appreciate.

They kiss again, Marcus’s hands mapping Esca’s body with a new determination, and Esca relishes the touch. He too is taking the opportunity to discover Marcus’s body – he may have massaged him many times, but this is altogether different, and despite the urgency there is more leisure to explore each other than there was before, either at the baths or on the training ground.

Esca is regaining some of his earlier aggressiveness, wrestling with Marcus for the upper hand as they grope each other, mouths avid on each other. He has had enough of stretching onto his toes and craves the easier access afforded by a bed, so he drags Marcus sideways and manages to trip him onto the bed, landing with him on the pile of furs. The bed smells even more strongly of Marcus, of his sweat and musk, and Esca’s cock is so hard he aches. He bares his teeth when Marcus reaches down and cups his arse, thick fingers probing for his hole, and arches into the touch.

“If you want to fuck me, it is best to be prepared,” he says, biting back a moan, and he nods towards the oil lamp on the table by the side of the bed.

Marcus’s face is unreadable as he pours some of the oil onto his fingers, coating them, and smears his cock with the oil, a few bold strokes that have him even harder, the veins standing out on the oil-slicked shaft before leaning over Esca. Marcus spreads a few drops along Esca’s own cock before descending lower, past his balls with a slick finger and heading towards his tight pucker, easing it in, which makes Esca choke with _want_. That first finger is followed by another, and Esca feels himself relax under the pressure, welcoming the intrusion as sparks of fire follow in its wake, to the point that the removal of the fingers feels like abandonment.

But Marcus is now kneeling between Esca’s spread legs, one hand loosely wrapped around his impressive erection, and Esca is spellbound by the sight. With one hand, Marcus pulls Esca a little closer, and crowds over him, spreading him open.

Escas’s entire being feels like it’s balanced on a razor’s edge of desire.

Marcus’s cock teases at his arse, each brush of the swollen head sending jolts of pleasure up Esca’s spine. Poised above him, Marcus is so tense he’s trembling, so Esca reaches for him and holds him in place, guiding his prick as Marcus pushes against him, into him.

The oil and Marcus’s thick fingers have done their work well, and despite the Marcus’s thickness, the first breach barely hurts, the stretch turning swiftly to pleasure as his cock drives in.

“Fuck, Esca,” Marcus is panting, the corded tendons on his neck rigid as he tries to hold back, until Esca digs his fingers into his hips and pulls him deeper.

“I am not a weak woman, or a boy you might break, Marcus,” he hisses, enjoying the look of surprise on Marcus’s face at the casual use of his given name. “Fuck me like a man.”

And Marcus does, thrusting into him slowly at first, until he’s fully inside Esca, then harder, balls slapping against his arse, filling him to perfection, and Esca whimpers under the onslaught. There’s something about the sheer bulk of Marcus looming over him as he fucks him that excites Esca more than he expected, and his cock is already begging for release, weeping onto his belly.

“Not a weak woman, eh?” Marcus grunts as he slides in and out, eliciting a few choice British swearwords from Esca. Despite the bravado, it is clear that Marcus is himself close to the edge, and hanging on by force of will alone, so Esca decides to accelerate the proceedings and wraps a hand around his cock, locking eyes with Marcus as he does.

“Spend for me, Marcus,” he says, low, and he can see Marcus’s eyes lose focus as he surrenders to the mounting orgasm, thrusting blindly for a few deep strokes that in turn set Esca off. The pleasure is beyond intense, thrumming through every nerve in his body, and he gives a shout as his cock erupts onto his chest and stomach, streaking him liberally.

“By all that is holy,” Marcus gasps in a strangled voice before collapsing onto Esca, where he lies, breathing heavily, his heart so loud that Esca can feel it in _his_ chest, dwarfing his own heartbeat. They stay entwined for a few moments, until Esca squirms, his breath constricted by Marcus’s not inconsiderable weight, and Marcus rolls off to rest alongside him.

“Had you never done this?” he whispers, and he can feel Marcus shake his head.

“Not with another man. Almost, when I was young, but we used our thighs.” He lets out a shaky breath. “It was… simpler.”

“And with women?”

Marcus snorts, a puff of air that reaches Esca’s neck.

“With women, yes. But this is much different.”

“That it is. But pleasure is pleasure. And that difference doesn’t warrant hiding your face in shame,” Esca says, suddenly emboldened.

“Esca, you cannot understand…”

“I understand more than you think, even if I do not share your beliefs. What I will say is this – if you want to ascribe some physical dimension to my honour, you would do well to choose this,” and Esca picks his father’s dagger from the bedside table, its hilt so familiar in the palm of his hand, and presents it to Marcus, “rather than my arse.”

The look on Marcus’s face is beyond price – confusion replaced first by anger, short-lived, and then by a rueful smile. There is no trace – for the time being – of the guilt and shame that have marred previous encounters.

“When you express yourself in such a manner, you are difficult to argue against.”

Maybe it is the post-coital languor, or the exhaustion of a day filled with physical challenges and sexual encounters, but Marcus does not seem inclined to complain further, which suits Esca very well. His master’s bed is comfortable, and just about wide enough for two – better at any rate than his usual pallet, and he intends to sleep here if he can.

He stretches his arms with a yawn, and turns his back to Marcus, burrowing under the furs. He suspects that behind him, Marcus is trying to decide what this means, and whether it is honourable and Roman enough for him, or indeed for Esca.

To his unalloyed joy, Marcus either fails to come to a decision or is overcome by exhaustion, because all that happens is an arm drapes over Esca’s midriff.

Esca sleeps better than he has in weeks.


End file.
